The Guard of the Dunes, however, does not obtain the title of the Salt Ubar in virtue of his complacent magistracy of the salt districts, subservient to the Tahari merchants. There are those who say, and I do not doubt it true, that it is he, and not the merchants, who controls the salt of the Tahari. Nominally a sheriff of the Tahad merchants, he, ensconced in his kasbah, first among fierce warriors, elusive and unscrupulous, possesses a strangle bold on the salt of the Tahari, the vital commerce being ruled and regulated as he wills. He holds within his territories the right of law and execution. In the dunes he is Ubar and the merchants bow their heads to him. The Guard of the Dunes is one of the most dreaded and powerful men in the Tahari.

“Kneel, Slaves,” said the rider, the leader of the men who had captured us.

Hassan and I knelt.

“Kiss the sand before the gate of your master,” said the man.

Hassan and I pressed our lips to the sand before the great, open portal.

“On your feet, Slaves,” said the man. Hassan and I rose to our feet.

“You have been troublesome, Slaves,” said the man. “You will be troublesome no more.”

The gate stood open before us. We could see the courtyard, whitish beyond, the moonlight on its sand, the small lamps set in the far walls.

“Herd the slaves before their master,” said the rider, be the leader of our captors.

I felt the point of a scimitar in my back.

“What is the name of the Salt Ubar?” I asked Hassan.

“I thought everyone knew his name,” said Hassan.

“No,” I said. “What is his name?”

“Abdul,” said Hassan.

The scimitar pressed in my back. I, and Hassan, entered the kasbah of the Guard of the Dunes, the Salt Ubar, he whose name was Abdul.

Opulent were the halls and lofty chambers of the kasbah of Abdul, the guard of the dunes, he known as the Salt Ubar of the Tahari.

Rich and smooth were the variegated, glossy tiles, sumptuous the hangings, slender the pillars and columns, ornate the screens and carvings, brilliant and intricate the stylized floral inlays, the geometrical mosaics. High vessels of gold, some as tall as a girl, gleaming dully in the light of the lamps, were passed on our journey through the halls, into the upper rooms, too, great vases of red and yellow porcelain, many of which were as large as a man, imported from the potteries of Tyros. Beaded curtains did we pass, and many portals, looming and carved.

We did not soil the polished floors, nor bring sand within. At the foot of the great stairs, marble and spiraling, leading to the upper rooms, we, and our guards, those accompanying us, some dozen men, paused. Their desert boots were removed by kneeling slave girls, who then, with lavers and veminium water, and oils, pouring and cleansing, washed their feet. The girls were not of the Tahari, and so dried the men’s feet with their hair. To make a Tahari girl, even though slave, do this, is regarded as a great degradation. As discipline, of course, what is routine for a girl not of the Tahari, in miserable Tahari enslavement, may be forced on a slave girl whose origin is itself the Tahari.

When the men’s feet were cleansed, they were fitted by the girls with soft, heel-less slippers, of the sort commonly worn indoors in permanent residences in the Tahari, with extended, curling toes. The feet of myself, and those of Hassan, too, were washed, and dried. The girl who cared for me had long, hair, almost black. She bent to her work. Once she looked up at me. She might once have been of high family in Ar. She was now only a Tahari slave girl. She looked down, finishing her labors. “In there,” said the man who had led our captors. We had now stopped before a great portal, narrower at its bottom, then swelling, curving, gracefully expanding, outward and upward, then narrowing again, gracefully concluding in a point. It might have been in the design of a stylized lance, or flame or leaf. This portal lay at the end of our trek, through several balls, and up more than one flight of stairs.

There were men within, seated about a central figure, on rugs, on a dais. The men were veiled, in the manner of the Char. Girls, docile, belled and collared, served them.

A girl emerged from the room. Our eyes met. Her eyes fell. She did not know us.

She found herself examined. Her body blushed red, from hair to ankles. Though Hassan and I were stripped, she was more naked than we, for she wore Gorean slave silk.

“In there,” said the man. Again I felt the incitement of the point of the scimitar in my back.

On ropes, hands bound behind our back, Hassan and I entered the lofty chamber.

Those within the chamber looked up.

We were thrust before the dais. “Kneel, and kiss the tiles before the feet of your master,” the man. Hassan and I knelt. Scimitars stood at the ready. We kissed the tiles. We straightened ourselves. Failure to comply in such a situation means immediate decapitation.

The man on the dais, sitting cross-legged, regarded us.

We said nothing.

He lifted his finger. “You may again show respect,” said the man behind us.

We again kissed the tiles. We again straightened ourselves. Again we said nothing.

“I did not think a woman could hold you,” smiled the man on the dais.

We did not respond.

“I expect to have better fortune,” said the man. He was veiled, in the manner of the Char, as were the others with him. He picked a grape from a bowl of fruit on a small table near him, and, holding the veil from his face, as do the men of the Char, put the bit of fruit into his mouth, and bit into it. It was pitted.

He chewed on the fruit.

I looked about the room.

It was a marvelous and lofty room, high ceilinged, columned and tiled, ornately carved, open and spacious in aspect, rich in its decoration. A vizier, a pasha, a caliph, might have held audience in such a chamber.

“She is an excellent tool,” said the man on the dais, finishing the fruit, rinsing the fingers of his right band in a small bowl of veminium water, and drying them on a cloth to his right. “But only, when all is said and done, a woman. I did not think she could hold you. You were little more than twenty Ahn in her keeping.”

“We fell well into your trap,” said Hassan.

The man shrugged, a Tahari shrug, tiny, subtle, like a swift smile, acknowledging the compliment of Hassan.

“It is not clear to me,” said Hassan, “why a simple date merchant, like my friend. Hakim of Tor, and I, a lowly bandit, would be of interest to one so august as yourself.”

The man regarded Hassan. “Once,” said he, “you took something from me, something in which I was interested.”

“I am a bandit,” said Hassan, in cheerful explanation. “It is my business.

Perhaps I could return it to you, if you were serious about its recovery.”

“I have recovered it myself,” said he.

“Then I have little with which to bargain,” admitted Hassan. “What was it I took, in which you were interested?”

“A trifle,” said the man.

“Perhaps it was another bandit,” suggested Hassan. “Many of us, veiled, resemble one another.”

“I witnessed the theft,” said he. “You did not deign to conceal your features.”

“Perhaps that was unwise on my part,” volunteered Hassan. He was clearly curious. “Yet I do not recollect purloining anything upon an occasion on which you were present. Indeed, this is my first visit to your kasbah.”

“You did not recognize me,” said the man.

“I did not mean to be uncivil,” said Hassan.

“You were in reasonable haste,” said the man.

“My business must often be conducted with dispatch,” admitted Hassan. “What was it I took?” he asked.

“A bauble,” said the man.

“I hope that you will forgive me,” said Hassan. “Further, in the light of the fact that you have recovered that in which you were interested, whatever it is, I trust that you will be willing to let bygones be bygones, and permit myself and my friend to depart, returning to us our kaiila, garments and accouterments, and perhaps bestowing upon us some water and supplies. We will then be on our way, commending your generosity and hospitality at the campfires, and will bother you no longer.”